Day Three: Part Two

The townspeople of Yuke are in the process of building a bridge over the small river. Currently, all traffic from the small mountain must endure a short makeshift crossing of planks and logs, barely wide enough for the motorcycle. I had to dismount as Dorje spun it across the earthen banks and flimsy boards. Entering Yuke, however, was worth the small inconvenience. "The word for this kind of place," I explained to Dorje, "is 'Fronteir.'" In addition to the bridge project, workers were "resurfacing" the main drag in town. Large craggly stones were assembled in the floor of the road, and then covered by gravel and an upper layer of dirt. A curious pounding machine flattened the new, concrete-less road.

From the outside Yuke looks rather small, a neat conglomeration of wooden homes and a single Chinese style structure (replete with the Red Flag), the local primary school. As we rode across the unfinished road through town, numerous Tibetan pedestrians and monks waved greetings to us. I imagine that few foreigners make their way down that road from Daofu, despite its stunning natural beauty, and in spite of the stares I enjoyed the relatively warm reception. We immediately headed to the school, where Dorje's sister works as a Chinese teacher. She unlocked the gate for us, and we went inside to rest and eat.

We were starving. It was past one o'clock, so everyone had eaten and the students and most teachers were in class. Dorje's sister helped us to their left-overs, and we also brought some food out of the rough sack that we had strapped to the back of the hog. One of the plastic bags containing cold spicy noodles had broken. It was no matter to Dorje and the rest; they scooped it together onto a plate and served it as if nothing had happened. I, on the other hand, attempted to stick mainly to the relatively fresh food left from lunch.

The room had a wood stove, similar to the one in Dorje's home. Yuke sits at around four thousand kilometers, and was significantly colder than Daofu. I kept my new hat on as we drank tea and relaxed from the journey, warming ourselves by the fire. After a while we decided to walk explore the small town. When the children saw us, they crowded and pressed around me, saying simple non sequiturs like "Good Evening!" and "Good Morning!," and trying to hold my hand or kick me in the butt. Most of them had ruddy cheeks from numerous winters, and nostrils permanently crusted with snot. Down to the first grade the students lived at the school away from their mostly nomadic families. We finally dislodged them all and made our way through town.

There aren't many things in Yuke other than the unique mountian homes and the beautiful mountains. It certainly was enough. After walking a short ways we found ourselves in the back of town at the monastery, a towering single-roomed square building of stone that faces away from the rest of the community. Around the courtyard there were men stripping large logs and preparing them for lumber. Later I learned that they would be building simple living quarters for the monks of the six year old gompa. We went inside, prostrated three times, and seated ourselves in the back among the little children and the old ladies that had brought them at the back of the colorful room.

The group had come to listen to the monks chant and play their horns and drums. The group sat in six rows, three facing three with the large drum in the center. In one of the middle rows, a beautiful adolescent boy with long straight hair and a golden jacket sat among the other monk. Some of the older monks dozed toward the back. Dorje explained that the boy with long hair was probably a Rinpoche, a "Precious Jewel," a thulku or reincarnated high lama from the past. He also explained to me that I had been prostrating incorrectly. Since first learning to sit still at the Zen Club at Rice University, I have pressed my palms flatly together with my left thumb sitting over the right thumb. Dorje explained that I should leave an empty space between my palms, and not allow any fingers to cross the others.

Soon a monk came over to us, and offered to show us around the monastery. I was a bit embarrassed as we had already been attracting (distracting?) a lot of attention from the monks. The man was Hannah's uncle, and Dorje and I recognized him from the thukpa shop in Daofu that her cousin owns. We agreed to the tour, and he began by showing bringing us to the rear of the hall. There was a large statue of Padmasambhava, the Guru Rinpoche, in a rear section of the hall that was surrounded by workers painting thanka on the walls around the icon. Dorje informed me that it had been "made of" a deceased lama, which disturbed me somewhat until I realized that he meant to say that it was "made by" (the financial offerings of) a previous lama. In fact, the new monastery and the housing project is underwritten by some wealthy lamas and practitioners that have taken the Yuke community under their care.

He next showed us the thanka, or paintings, that surrounded the perimeter of the hall. Each colorfully and stylistically depict a Buddha, Rinpoche, deity, or Dharma protector important to their lineage of Tibetan Buddhism. Soon we came across Chenrezig, an immanation of Avolakiteshvara, the Guardian of Compassion. Some suggest the he takes the female form of GuanYin in Chinese Buddhism, and Kannon in Japan. When Michael and I visited Lama Wangdu with Ian McCormick in Kathmandu, He gave us each a colored metal medallion to wear around our necks. I was blessed with one of Chenrezig. Michael told me that the Lama had said it was because I have a "white heart." Chenrezig has four arms, two of which are holding a mediation mudra (hand gesture) and two of which are pressed together at his sternum. His hands are slightly parted, as if he is holding something very special...

Soon we returned to the school after circumambulating the gompa a few times. We ate dinner with Dorje's sister and one of her friends. The conversation drifted between Mandarin and the dialect of Daofu, with a bit of English here and there. Although the girls were not English teachers, English is a requirement on all teaching and government examinations in China. After a while a young man named Gonga Sonam joined us. He was a recent graduate of the Bridge Fund program, and had just begun at the school as a Tibetan teacher. He was only twenty, deciding not to take the exams to go to University. He was a little concerned with his school placement; when requesting to teach in Daofu county, he had not expected to be placed so far into the countryside. He said if he was a judge's son, he could easily get moved, but since he didn't know anyone there was a chance he'd be teaching in Daofu for the next three of four decades. The eligible batchelorettes in Yuke are few and far between.

Dorje and I took a bit of time to watch the children as they ate their dinner. Each child gets noodles for dinner, enhanced with a bit of cooked cabbage floating around the soup. Although it is a simple meal, they are welcome to as many helpings as they like. Dorje said that for lunch they get some vegetables, although he wasn't certain. Meat is expensive. Dorje felt that watching the poor students was good for us both: "It really makes my heart open." He asked me about certain words in English, begging me translate terms like "depressed economy," "development," and "resources."

I took the opportunity to dispel a myth that I hear constantly as I travel in China, that all people in America are rich. I explained to him that although even dishwashers make at least $800 a month, which is quite a good salary in China [a little more than what I'm making as a foreign instructor, incidentally], it is rarely enough to live on in America. I explained to him that rent, health and automotive insurance, gasoline, a car note, energy bills, and basic living expenses generally add up to over $800 per month; even for a person living on their own, making a living on the minimum wage is extremely difficult. We also went into credit card debt a bit. People in developing countries tend to focus on the higher wages that people in developed countries earn for even the most menial tasks. They often forget the fact that an inflated economy means that everything costs a lot more, too.

Soon the sun set and it became dark, much darker than I expected, actually. A light drizzle moistened the deep night. Yuke does not have a central power grid. Sometimes they stoke up the generator at the school, but not this evening, apparently. Gonga returned with a few beers for the two of us, and Pepsis for the girls and Dorje. Students in the Bridge Fund are not allowed to drink booze. I've been drinking a lot less myself. Beside the stove, the five of us chatted by candlelight about numerous useless topics as ate sunflower seeds and some god-awful hard-candy.

I stopped after one beer, as I was concerned about a relapse of my morning headache, which by now I was ready to attribute to the altitude. Gonga offered to let me sleep in the extra bed in his room, which he shared with two other teachers. As I got into bed, Gonga threw an extra blanket on top of me and Dorje actually tucked me in, on all sides. They acted very concerned that I would be too cold during the night. I assured them that I had fared much worse in my old sleeping bag and thin ground pad in the mountains of Colorado and New Mexico. I pulled my hat on tight. Gonga told me that if I needed to pee during the night, just to step outside and go in the grass. I certainly had no problem with that. It was not yet midnight, but I fell asleep quickly, and did not need to get up until breakfast.